It’s 10:30pm and Gretchen and I have just put the finishing touches on our new and improved, baby ready home. The floors are swept, the dishes are done, the bathrooms are clean, the laundry is finished and the nursery is painted and stocked with all the diapers, clothes and stuffed animals a dozen babies would need. We take one last look at the nursery and, with a sigh, flick off the lights and turn towards the bedroom knowing that we’ll be checking in to the hospital in eight hours. I’m halfway down the stairs on my way to make sure everything is locked up for the night when I notice some water on the floor. I ask Gretchen if something may have spilled on the steps, and she doesn’t think so. She looks at the ceiling hoping that our roof hasn’t sprung another leak. I look up as well and notice that the handrail above the steps is dripping. There is a small puddle in the upstairs hall which is slowly dripping onto the rail, then the steps and finally onto the floor downstairs. Wondering what’s going on I lean over the rail to sniff the dripping liquid. Like a bolt of foul smelling lighting it hits me, this is urine. A dog has peed in the house. That is relatively unusual in itself, it’s been at least three or four months since we’ve had that happen, but this is no ordinary house-peeing either. A dog must have stood at the edge of the stairwell in the upstairs hallway and peed onto the railing and out into the abyss. There is dog urine in a puddle on the upstairs floor dripping down the wall onto the steps where it is running off onto the floor again. By far, this is the worst urine-related disaster our family has ever seen. A dog could not have covered more area with pee if he had used a complex irrigation system and a crop duster.

Using my extensive knowledge of canine anatomy I quickly deduce that it was most likely Ben, our male beagle who would be responsible of such a feat. Evidently he has not only recently become and epileptic, but a urinary magician as well, capable of bending the very laws of physics to paint his putrid masterpiece (or should I say, “masterpiss”?). One look at him cowering behind a potted plant confirms my suspicion. Our eyes connect and he bolts for the backdoor.

As I’m cleaning up his mess and thinking of how to word the “Stupid Dog for Sale” ad I’ll be placing in the classified section the next morning, I realize that in all our haste to get the house clean we hadn’t let Ben out to use the bathroom since well before we went to church that evening. That was at least 6 hours, maybe as many as 8 since he had the chance to relieve himself. His little bladder may very well have been past it’s capacity when he let loose on our steps. His unholy deluge was probably as much my fault as it was his. I’m on my toes wiping dog pee off the wall with no one to be angry at but myself.

And now I can’t sleep. I’m too nervous about tomorrow morning.

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